by Leo McNeir
He did not look sympathetic. “It's just being typed up. It won't take long. How are you feeling?”
“What is?” Even Marnie was surprised at the aggression in her voice.
Bruere's turn to be taken aback. “Your statement.” He looked bewildered. “The one you made ten minutes ago. Are you feeling all right, Mrs Walker?”
“I suppose I'm a suspect for blowing up my own car, am I?”
Bruere frowned. “I'm not with you.”
“Were you ever!”
He shook his head. “Shall I go back out and come in again or what? I'm missing part of the jigsaw here.”
Marnie sighed and sipped the tea. It was in a china cup, not best china, but not plastic throwaway, and it had a saucer. Perhaps she had been promoted in the police vision of the world from suspect to victim. She tried to work out why she was feeling so much aggression, and put it down to shock. “I'm sorry. It's not your fault. For some reason I just feel so angry.”
“Hardly surprising, is it?”
“Don't tell me I'm in a state of shock. I can work that out for myself.”
“Look, Mrs Walker, I can understand how you feel. If someone had blown up my car, I'd be screaming blue bloody murder and wanting to tear them apart with my bare hands.”
She knew she should not do it, but Marnie smiled, and the smile turned into a laugh, but it soon subsided. “It is shock,” she said, cradling her chin in her hands, elbows on the table.
Bruere sat down in the chair opposite. He looked puzzled. “We've got a medic coming to have a look at you. Standard procedure, and don't tell me you're not injured. Delayed shock can do strange things, and we don't want you going out of here and fainting under a bus. It would look bad.”
“You're all heart.”
“So I'm told. If you want, we can get you to hospital so they can give you a thorough examination. It's up to you.”
“I'll be okay. Thanks.” She picked up another biscuit and broke off a piece, pushing the plate across the table to Bruere. Without speaking, he took one and they nibbled together in silence. It seemed almost companionable. Marnie looked at Bruere. “So what's next?”
“Haven't you had enough?” His expression was deadpan, but it spread into a slow smile.
“I mean what do I have to do now? What about my car? Do you have any advice for me, such as, what do you usually say to people whose cars have been blown up by a bomb?”
“It's usually something like rest in peace.” He was not smiling. Nor was Marnie. “The truth is, there isn't any standard procedure. You've had a narrow escape. We have to find out who did it and whether it had anything to do with you.”
“The fact that it was my car might give you a clue there.” Marnie sounded more flippant than she felt.
“If it was terrorists, it might have been a coincidence.”
“In whodunits, this is where you ask me if I believe in coincidences and I say 'no' and you agree.”
“Something like that.”
Marnie was exasperated. “It's got to be related, hasn't it?”
“I would've thought so.”
“So this is where you ask me again what it is that I'm not telling you, right? And I insist, and then …”
“And then we finally believe you?”
“Why not? You've got to start believing me some time.”
“Yes. You're right.”
“Really?”
“As you said, why not?”
“Blimey! Now I know I'm in shock. Is that offer of a complete examination in hospital still on?”
ooo0ooo
A WPC walked with Marnie and Bruere along the corridor from the interview room. She had made a gesture towards taking Marnie by the arm, but as she was moving closer, one glance from Marnie was enough to persuade her that it was not a good idea.
“Be careful, Rosemary. This one bites,” Bruere had said with a rueful smile.
“I'll remember,” said the WPC.
Bruere looked at Marnie as they reached the door at the end of the corridor. “You'll keep your mobile on, okay? Any worries and you contact us straight away.”
Marnie nodded. “Your number's engraved on my heart.”
“It's not too late to change your mind about protection. We can put you up for a while.”
“I'm sure I'll be all right at my sister's. No-one knows I'm there. And I'll drive home in the morning.”
“How?” said Bruere. It was a timely reminder.
“Ah …” said Marnie.
“Quite.”
“I'll organise something, but it might take another day.” They pushed through the door to the entrance hall. The WPC walked over to the desk and came back with a bundle.
“Your coat, Marnie. We had it sent from the pub.”
“It seems a long time since I was wearing this. A lot seems to have happened.”
Bruere helped her on with it. “There's a taxi waiting for you outside.”
“You're spoiling me.”
“Don't thank us.”
Marnie climbed in and leaned forward to talk to the driver through the partition. Before she could speak, he called back. “Chiswick?”
Marnie felt a chill hand at her throat as the cab pulled away from the kerb. “How did you know that?”
“I had orders to take you to Chiswick, but you have to give me the address, love.”
“Orders? Who from?”
“Mr. Grant. He booked me to pick you up and take you home.”
Marnie gave directions and shifted back in the seat. No-one knows I'm there … She had not seen Grant since they were taken to the station. She knew he was having separate interviews, and a message had reached her that he had gone on to see some other officers, presumably at Scotland Yard. Now that she was out of the police station, she was starting to wonder whether she was doing the right thing. She was wondering what was actually happening around her. What should she do about the car? What would be done with the wreckage? Absurdly, she was worrying about a cassette that she had borrowed from Beth to play on journeys. She had put it in the glove compartment for safe keeping. Now there was no cassette and no glove compartment.
She looked out of the taxi window at London going by. Everything looked cold and ordinary. Nobody was paying any attention to her or her cab. But out there somewhere, someone was more than passingly interested in her, interested enough to want to destroy her. She shuddered. If Malcolm had not taken her to the pub, she would have been in the car driving to Chiswick when the bomb went off. My god …
Marnie turned in her seat to look out of the rear window. Was one of the cars trundling along behind following her taxi? She had never looked out of a taxi's rear window before. It was surprisingly dark, tinted a smoky brown colour. She became aware of a voice and turned back to ask the driver to repeat himself.
“I said what address is it, love?”
Marnie hesitated before replying. She had a ridiculous image in her mind of the driver tied to a chair in a dirty garage while masked thugs threatened him with knives to make him reveal the address where he had dropped her. Absurd!
“Do you know Hamer Road?”
“Is that the Hammersmith end?”
“No. It's near the railway station, not far from the Polytechnic stadium.”
“I've got you.”
“You can just drop me on the corner when we get there, please.”
“Mr Grant said I had to see you safely to your door.”
“The corner's fine.”
“He won't be happy.”
“He won't be there.”
“Fair enough, love.”
They were making good time through the afternoon traffic. Marnie opened her shoulder bag to rummage for Beth's door key and noticed that the fronts of her trousers were still dusty from kneeling on the floor in the pub. She brushed them with her hand. Her new trousers. A new year. A good start! She pulled her long coat over her legs. She certainly did not feel like a Cossack and probably did not look like one, either
. The trouble with her life currently was that nothing was probably what it seemed. She felt an overwhelming temptation to ask the driver to wait while she collected her bag from Beth's and then take her straight back to Knightly St John.
They turned into a side street and drew to a halt at the next corner. “Are you sure this is as far as you want go?”
Marnie climbed out. “This'll be fine. How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. It's all taken care of.”
“I can pay for my own taxi,” she protested.
“No problem. Anyway, I'm not a taxi. You take care now.”
He drove off. Marnie watched until he turned into another road and was gone. She walked more briskly than usual down the quiet suburban street, looking surreptitiously to see if there was anyone sitting in a parked car or standing under a tree. Everything looked normal. She opened the front door quickly and left it open while she made a rapid tour of the house. It was empty. While she was closing the door behind her, her mobile rang. It was Malcolm Grant.
“Are you at your sister's?”
“Yes. Just arrived. Thanks for the taxi.”
“Sorry to have left you like that, but there were people to see, matters to attend to. It took some of the pressure off you, I hope. How are you feeling?” His voice seemed strained.
Marnie tried to sound light-hearted. “How can I put it? Confused, shaken, anxious, angry. You could try any combination of those. On the other hand, I'm still alive, probably because you suggested a pub lunch. So you could add grateful to the list.”
“What are you plans now?”
“Something tells me you're about to give me your views on that. I've been planning to stay here and organise transport for tomorrow so that I can go home.”
“I see.” His voice was vague. He was thinking. Suddenly he snapped back to attention. “Okay. Look, Marnie, I can tell you that the advice here is that you should try to disappear from view for a day or two. Do you have friends where you can stay tonight?”
“Tonight? I'll be okay here.”
“Does anyone know where you are?”
“Not unless they followed the taxi.” The thought made her flesh creep.
“No-one did. Look, if you have any problems, ring me at once on the mobile. Don't hesitate. Okay?”
After hanging up, Marnie considered her options. It did not take long. The house, a hotel, back to Knightly, police protection. She could probably stay with Anne or Mrs Jolly, but that would put them in danger, if there was any danger. Anne and Mrs Jolly. Other friends. They would hear about the bomb on the news. She reached for the phone.
“Anne, it's me.”
“Have you heard the news, Marnie?” Marnie could imagine her friend’s face, eyes the size of dinner plates. She was speaking quickly, everything coming out in a rush. “I couldn't believe it when I heard them say Little Venice, I mean –”
“I know. Listen Anne, listen to me. Just listen. It was my car. I was nowhere near it at the time and no-one was hurt. Got that?”
“Blimey, Marnie! But you could’ve been –”
“And I wasn’t. Okay? It was lucky no-one was passing at the time. But that’s it. End of story. It was probably just coincidence that it was my Rover they chose to bomb.” As she said the words, Marnie wondered if she really believed this.
“Okay. If you say so.”
“Good.”
“It’s sad about the car. It was really nice.”
“Sure. There used to be a time when you just got a ticket for staying too long on a parking meter. That’s what I call a deterrent!”
Anne did not laugh. “Have you phoned Ralph to tell him? He’s bound to see the news and worry about you.”
Marnie hesitated. “Well, no, not actually.”
“Of course. There’s a huge difference in time, isn’t there? I was forgetting. So what’s happening now? Friendly chats with Inspector Bruere, is it?”
“Among others. There are all sorts of people who deal with bombings. I may have more interviews to come.”
“So not back to Knightly just yet?”
“I suppose not. I’ll keep you posted.”
“What about transport? You'll need a car.”
“Why do I get the impression you’re already making a list of things to be done?”
Next call, Mrs Jolly.
“Marnie! Have you heard what's happened in Little Venice?”
“A car was blown up by a bomb. It was my car.”
“Oh, you’ve heard, then. People are saying it’s the end of the IRA cease-fire. Though why anyone should pick on this area no-one can understand.”
“Mrs Jolly, you didn’t hear what I said. I said it was my car, my Rover that was blown up.”
“Oh my goodness! Are you all right? On the news it said that no-one was in the car at the time of the explosion.”
“I’m fine. The car was just parked by the pool of Little Venice. I was in the pub having lunch when it went off.”
Mrs Jolly suddenly sounded as old as her years. Her voice lost its vigour and seemed to quiver down the line. “Oh my dear. This is all very distressing.”
“Well, I’m not hurt and nor was anybody else.”
“Thank god for that.”
“Yes. And the insurance will take care of the technicalities. I just wanted to let you know.”
“Are you somewhere safe?”
“Absolutely. Don't worry about me.”
Marnie made coffee and helped herself to a cognac. While she drank, she made more calls: Beth and her parents in Spain, Jane Rutherford, Molly Appleton at the village shop, the Burtons in cottage number one, Philip Everett and Faye Summers. She told no-one where she was staying and asked them not to try ringing her on the mobile. Cellphone calls could be intercepted. She thought she was becoming paranoid. So what? Better than becoming dead.
She did not try ringing Ralph. She had no idea what time it was in Japan, and in any case he would be in a meeting somewhere. Not the kind of message you could leave with a hotel receptionist.
A few times, she looked out into the street from an upstairs window without moving the curtains. She could not help thinking she was behaving like a fugitive in a crime movie. There was nothing unusual outside. But it was not impossible that someone knew where she was. After dark, things could be different.
To take her mind off these thoughts, she went out to the garage. She wanted to see the MG while it was still light. There was the familiar dust sheet that she had made herself and decorated with an MG octagon logo on either side. She lifted it off and was surprised how clean the car was. Despite their complaints, Beth or Paul had kept the old sports car dusted, its green coachwork shining, the leather upholstery and interior protected by another cloth. She looked under the bonnet. There was no battery, but the engine looked reasonably clean. An idea was beginning to take shape in her mind. From the glove shelf she took out a card.
*
“Harrison and Dent, good afternoon.”
“Hallo. My name is Marnie Walker. You've done some work for me in the past on my MG. I was wondering if you could have a look at it and see if you can get it running.”
“Walker did you say? Just a sec.” Marnie could hear tapping on a keyboard, in the background the sound of grinding, the whirr of machinery. “TA, 1936, British racing green. Simon Walker. Finchley. That the one?”
“That's it. Only it's in Chiswick these days.”
“Just down the road, then. But presumably you can't bring it in.”
“That's the problem.”
“Give me your address.” Marnie hesitated before speaking. The man from the garage took the details. “How soon do you want it?”
“The usual.”
“Yesterday. Right. Same as everybody else. Hang on a minute.” Marnie could hear muffled voices. “Mrs Walker? We're not busy and you aren't far away. Could I collect it on the trailer after work? I could be round before six. Will someone be at home?”
*
M
arnie spent the next hour or so writing notes about her work schedule for the coming months. There was plenty to keep Walker and Co busy, but she found it hard to concentrate. Her mind kept wandering. She asked herself if she really was in serious danger and saw the Rover blazing at the roadside. She needed a survival plan. She needed advice. It was nearly six. She picked up the phone. Roger Broadbent was still in his office.
“Happy new year, Marnie. We can always live in hope. How are things? Is this a social call?”
“Roger, my car was destroyed by a bomb in Little Venice at lunchtime.”
“Not a social call. Christ! Are you okay?”
“Yes. Luckily I wasn't in it at the time.”
“Where are you now, Marnie?”
“That's the point. I'm at my sister's place in Chiswick. The police are advising me to keep out of the way. I don't think anyone knows where I am, but I can't be sure. I was wondering if I should go home.”
“Hardly inconspicuous. Let me think.” There was a pause lasting several seconds. Marnie heard a cup being replaced on a saucer. “Can you meet me at the supermarket at Kensal Green in about an hour?” The front doorbell rang.
“Sainsbury's? Yes, I can. What do you have in mind?”
“Bring your suitcase. All your things. I'd better get going.”
The bell rang again, and Marnie walked to the front door. As she went to open it, her stomach turned, but she recognised the man from the MG specialists. He announced himself as Michael Dent, and she led him through to the garage.
He walked round the car, sticking his nose into every corner, kneeling down to peer underneath. “Doesn't look too bad. I was wondering what had become of it just the other day. We thought you might have got rid of it.”
“There are some things you don't get rid of.”
“Sure. How’s your husband by the way?”
“He isn’t one of them.”
A pause while the meaning sank in. “Ah. Sorry.”
“Don't be. I'm not.”
“On a practical note …”
“The car belongs to me. The papers are in my name. I'll settle the bill.”
“Fine.”
“As you say, on a practical note, when can you have a look at it? I'm rather desperate at the moment.”
